Well, they said it. Boeuf Bourguignon, ladies and gentlemen. What does that say to you? French peasant food? A little auberge tucked away among some hills, near a small gallic village perhaps? A large - I'll say that word again - large - tureen filled with steaming succulence on a a groaning wooden table flanked with lots of bread and a flagon or two of red wine? Followed by lots of cheese? Does it say that to you? Then we are on the same wavelength. If that is what you want do not, repeat not, go to the Bloody French.

The restaurant is of average proportions and stuffed with tables including a couple of those long bench things, which I dislike but am willing to put up with if the food is OK. It is noisy - nothing to absorb the sound - and if you have braying Sloanes in, unless you shout yourself, you are forced to listen to their 'conversation' which can be a bit soul destroying.

The cheapest red wine is £18 a bottle. I've forgotten what it was. It was alright. We were hungry and went straight for the boeuf. When it arrived I really could not believe my eyes. It came in a little white shallow bowl. It was so little that I measured it. I am the kind of sad git that has one of those mini-filofaxes with a little plastic ruler in it. The Boeuf Bourguignon potlette was about five inches in diameter. It was placed on a square white plate and had a smallish lump of mash next to it. To complete the picture was a long thin squirt of brown stuff. I have no idea what it was, nor do I care.

My fellow diner, who is half Spanish and couldn't believe her eyes either, said the boeuf was too fatty. I could not reach an opinion because the portion was too small for me to properly tell. It cost about eleven quid. She didn't think they'd have got away with it in France. Nor do I.

Still hungry we left and she made some lamb chops. They were very nice.